it’s those in between days now the shock of cold at dawn but then the old familiar heat red flag watch east of the Cascades the fires taking off late the spiders out early even instinct stupefied it’s time to accept the tomatoes on the vine have gone mealy and sour there is a cost to holding out too long a loss in holding on I take the chicken wire off the garden beds and […]
Standing still and green, the grass is more water than land. The sky is gray, dawn long past, but again, it’s hard to quantify. I think I may have a stone at my core, just one of those that studs the lawn, that fallen leaves adhere to, dense and cool, and hence the sense of weight, and how I wake on these days, Oregon mornings, to wistful rain, and a sense of longing–
With light, a shadow, after the tide, an ebb– Nothing wholly itself, everything containing a trace of its own leaving. The yellow morning catches in the spider web’s sheer girder, an ode on capability, and a dirge for the inevitable– There is a chill now at dawn. Sometimes I don’t know what to say: It’s no joy to always consider all that is possible. The gothic ruin of these late October maples, a pang of […]
A sun-drunk yesterday on late-season heat, even though it doesn’t clear Madison street in the evenings anymore, and gets cooler earlier, the sky gone staticky, the shadowy grains saying go home, no reason to stay here, just another thing gone, and paltry remainders.
Time like a river ebb and flow they said it won’t rain but it does seem likely the distinction of morning becoming more and more opaque and drowsy warm bedding regaining its succor half-asleep I turn my thoughts to you always always a comfort a bauble for my den
Putting away the sun dresses, the summer has carried us here– there’s an edge in the sky, a mix of blue with hard tin, wan through half-shut blinds as the window wiper descends in a perilous descant. Some movements are immovable, their arc and conclusions, fixed.
Late mornings lost hours lashings of rain on the faux window deck– the air is cooler now easy to breathe in but being more liquid more difficult to grasp– like the concept of letting a summer go in peace– the fires are finally now starting to ebb out but still I clutch it in tight fingers like some scratchy worn blanket comforting in its discomfort like how I even regret my regrets–
OPTIONAL POETRY 